


Seen

by AgentGhosten



Series: Witch-King [1]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Attempted Seduction, Backstory, Corruption, M/M, Mild Gore, Mind Manipulation, Second Age, yoU CAN’T CATCH ME GAY THOUGHTS
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-12
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-19 04:40:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29994030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AgentGhosten/pseuds/AgentGhosten
Summary: A beautiful, mysterious stranger offers a young hitman everything he’s ever dreamed of and more. But will he accept?Part One of the Witch-King’s origin story.
Relationships: Sauron | Mairon/Witch-King Of Angmar
Series: Witch-King [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2206317
Comments: 3
Kudos: 7





	Seen

A filthy woven sack was slung against the wooden tabletop with a hefty thud, and the subsequent rattle of nearby silverware. Droplets of blood splattered from the impact, flickering upon a mug of mead and a forkful of food held by a squirrelly man across the table. With a wince, he squinted upwards with an inquisitive raise of his brow.

“Aye... What’s all this, then?” he growled darkly, though a satisfied smirk was beginning to tug at his lips in anticipation.

“The head.” Deep and heavy was the assassin’s voice, fit for his enormous, powerful build, and more than seven feet tall. One large hand was thrust out over the messy sack, palm up, a glove with armored plates upon each finger. “The rest of my payment.”

With a conniving giggle, the squirrellish man hopped up from his seat to verify his prize, untying the sack to release a foul odor of rotting flesh quickly in to the smoky bar air. Though there was a grimace at the gore he beheld, he was indeed thrilled with the notion.

“Cover that shit up,” growled an agitated man from a nearby table. “Stinks!”

“Right, right,” the other hastily replied, cinching up his trophy and fishing into his own pockets for his hire’s remaining payment. Three fourths up front, one fourth after it’s done. This mysterious hooded man was the real deal; and he _always_ delivered. The price was more than worth it. A handful of golden coins offered a pleasant crunch under the assassin’s iron fingers, and without another word, he was turned on his heel and departed from his former employer.

The barkeep knew of the hitman well, though not by name or face, for no one knew that much. He frequented this bar; the offers were rich in need of dirty jobs, and this man was the one to seek. After each completed deal, he gave the barkeep a coin or two of his earning, enough for a pint of ale and thensome to ensure an agreeable relationship. This time was no different, and he slid a fresh pint across the bartop before those heavy footsteps even made it close, a single coin of winnings slid towards him in return. The hitman fit himself in to a booth with his pint, lit a long wooden pipe set between his lips, and brooded in silence.

Any other night, this would have gone the same as usual. The barkeep would observe him sitting quietly to himself, lest another approached him for a job, and if not, he’d simply return every night until one came across him. For an hour, no soul in the bar approached him. His pint emptied. His pipe dwindled out. He left like a shadow in the dark, gone once more without a trace, barely noticed.

And that was when the night would change. The assassin took two steps in to the dark, gravel crunching below his heavy boots, when an unforeseen presence suddenly inspired him to halt. Someone, or _something_ was here... And behold, as he glanced slowly round his shoulder he saw a bright figure, standing right next to the door, under the single lantern.

How had he missed this person before? The figure was lean and graceful, a lithe body of ivory flesh under robes of cerulean blue, and a long sheet of white-gold hair that seemed at first to be endless. In height, the mysterious person barely reached his chest. ‘𝘈 _woman_?’ thought the assassin, squinting and tilting his head. This part of town was no safe place for a woman, especially one as petite and lovely as this one; but, there was something about her that brought him pause, something intimidating. He approached her.

At first, nothing was said between them. She stared at him with a small smile, her eyes were as vibrantly blue as a cloudless sky that pierced him deep within his soul, a cold knife, and that is when the assassin knew she was no Man. An Elf she had to be, but no Elf he had ever known either; for as powerful as that ancient race was indeed, this being seemed so much more so. He felt himself slowly enchanted by her majesty, but he refused to let his thoughts be clouded by it: a stone wall was fit to guard his mind.

“Long have I traveled to find you,” announced the elf, but it made the assassin flinch. This was no woman. A man. The assassin’s jaw tightened as he squinted fiercely down at the elven creature, and his hand that was keen to reach for his dagger was stayed by a force he wasn’t sure was his own. “Why?” he grunted, harshly in his agitation.

“I am Annatar... of Eregion.”  
That gentle smile on his lips was beginning to set the assassin on edge, for it did not seem as charming as it once was... Something sinister was surely to be hid behind it under a guise so fair. “I have come in the bearing of gifts... And yet, is it not proper I should know the name of he whom I barter?”

Not a soul alive knew the name of this assassin of Middle-Earth, for his identity was long left behind after his exile from Númenor. No trace. No face. He was but a shadow in the night — yet why was it so that he now lifted his hands and removed his hood from his head? Strings of black curls tumbled from his temples, now framing a chiseled face and stubbled jaw, shaven by dagger blade. And he spoke, “Angmar,” in his low, reverberating voice: a name he had not spoken since his youth on an island across the sea. It sounded odd on his tongue, but this confusion was not ended here. The elf held out a golden ring in his palm.

Once more was nothing spoken. Dark eyes examined the ring from afar, yet his curiosity had grown too great. It called to him... and he took it between two large fingers. At once it had been tiny and fragile, unfit to top even his pinky finger, and yet now it had miraculously grown to a size made perfectly right, just for him. It was exceptionally crafted: elven beauty, without scuff or imperfection, a gold so pure that his prior payment was left a disrespect. So badly did he want to slip it over his ring finger, so badly did it tempt him. He met the eyes of Annatar in awe, finding him staring back with an inhuman grin.

“A gift crafted by mine own hand,” the elf spoke. “A promise to you of that which you desire greatest.”

“Magic,” Angmar muttered, rotating the ring between his fingers.

“Yes.”

“What happens... if I put it on?”

“You shall behold the future in wait for you,” Annatar said eagerly. “Truth shall present itself, fit for your taking.” He paused. “Try it.”

Angmar indeed expressed hesitance. Magic he knew was a tricky business, but it was one that brought him captivation. If what this ‘elf’ said was indeed the truth, he would now have a means of magic to himself, and whatever ‘future’ it would promise him. After carefully pulling off his armored glove, he slipped the ring over his pointer finger.

At once, a fog was lifted from Angmar’s mind. In his eyes, though not his eyes at all, he watched himself live several lives at once, in a flash. He, in the throne of a king, mountains of gold and silver in piles around him, women and servants at his disposal, weapons and armor crafted to his order. Somehow, he knew he was infinitely stronger, in skill, might, and mind, and he knew that Death cowered at his feet, its skull beneath his heel. He saw a realm in which he commanded, he saw an army that none could overcome. He saw kings whose throats were slit by his own knife. He saw Númenor fall. He saw the end of the world. He saw himself reincarnate. And, at the furthest reaches of these visions, he saw Him. An eye of burning fire, a catlike pupil as black as Void. By the gods, it looked back at him. A laugh he heard as loud as life in his eardrums, a deep cackle that chilled his body to the very fabric that wove him together. But, he feared it not, for he was one with it, and its power was his to borrow as he pleased. And now, as Angmar looked across at Annatar who stood before him, he saw the same fire behind his blue eyes, and all was clear to him. A question was presented in his mind.

“Will you accept?” Annatar whispered, so sweetly, so seductively; and not for the ring, but for the question it posed.

Angmar looked down at his hand and made a fist, rotating it from back to front.  
He felt as if he could challenge the world and win.  
He felt he would never die.

“So, yer returned,” the assassin muttered, almost to himself. Annatar paused. “You and your Master’re just myths... More than five generations passed down ol’ tales of those times, singin’ of... ‘elves’ and ‘victory’. ‘Be surprised if they don’t believe in gods ‘nymore...”

“Do you believe in me, Angmar?” Annatar inquired, touching a delicate hand to the assassin’s rough one. It was so feather-light and smooth against his coarse skin. He thought, for a moment, that he wanted to feel more. Yet, he wasn’t sure which thoughts belonged to him or to the Dark Lord anymore, and that, partially, caused him great frustration. He pushed away Annatar’s hand.

“ _Sauron the Deceiver_ ,” he sneered, yanking the ring from his finger. He immediately felt drained, a depression weighing over him like a cloudy blanket, but he resisted that too. “You won’t give me what I saw. You don’t _promise_. You don’t _barter_.” Angmar hurled the ring in to the night, yet as soon as it left his grasp he felt immense regret for his actions, as if his whole life was being lost in the darkness of the evening. He stared after it for a moment with worried brows, yet soon enough was scowling again at Annatar. “I will not dabble with those who deal in lies.”

Annatar did not seem perturbed by this aggressive display. He was calm in face, light in his fingers that touched to each other in contemplation. Whence he said nothing, Angmar turned and stormed down the gravel road, stomping in to the ground with clenched fists. Then, the Dark Lord spoke after him, “Call for me, and I will come.”

He too, turned on his light heel in the opposite direction, and the two went their separate ways. Though, Annatar was not discouraged. He smiled, for now his Eye had _Seen_ Angmar, and knew his very soul. He would come to desire the Dark Lord and what he offered, and Sauron would have him. Some part of Angmar knew this to be true as well, but he would deny it even in to the next hours when he laid to sleep, once more seeing the visions that were promised to be his future, and feeling Annatar’s gentle body against him, inviting him forth.


End file.
